Being Pregnant Is Just Like Having Balls

by Cookie

Blogging has become that thing I do rather than sit around and have conversations in my head with myself.  I mean, the conversations still sort of happen, but at least now I write them down and get some responses.  Especially when the topic is something that I’m curious about but nobody talks about because it really doesn’t matter.  Sometimes it’s the result of a chain reaction.  I think about one thing that sets off another, and next thing you know I’m inside my brain, thinking about asinine, irrelevant topics.

Today is one of those days.  Or rather yesterday was.

The weather has finally turned nice here, and I am enormously pregnant.  Compared to my first baby, my belly looks like it is in a different hemisphere.  With Destroyer I carried really high and round all over.  With Little Buddy, my belly is ridiculously round and sitting so low that I have lost half my lap.  That’s right kids.  I have a gunt.  You know… a gut that hangs over where your cunt should be. (Apologies for the C word so early in the morning.  I usually reserve this for women I really hate.)

So because I am feeling so fat, my main uniform these days consists of leggings and a dress that is now a shirt, or an actual dress.  And when I sit down, my gunt sits on my lap where my child used to sit, and sticks to my legs.

It is seriously the most annoying thing ever.  Ever.  Do you know what it’s like to either sit there and try to casually adjust your stomach off your legs with no one noticing, while skin sticks to skin?  I am making an appointment with my plastic surgeon immediately.  Once Little Body Wrecker  Little Buddy comes out, I am getting a tummy tuck and that’s final.

So anyway, as I’m sitting there trying to peel my stomach off my legs, I start thinking about balls.  Not the sporty kind, the testicular kind.  Sweet meats.  Family jewels.  Whatever.  Balls.

And I think, O.M.G.  I just experienced what it’s like to be a man.  THIS is what it must feel like when it’s a bazillion degrees outside and our boxer wearing counterparts have to deal with their balls sticking to the side of their leg.

We all know what happens to balls when it’s hot out.  It’s the simple laws of thermochemistry.  When it’s hot, molecules separate from one another, causing things to expand.  When it’s cold, the molecules huddle together to keep warm, causing things to shrink.  Come on. We all know what happens when you go swimming in a cold lake.  I’ve seen some balls almost retract from cold.  Like they hide back inside the body somehow.

Anyway.  Once I realize how uncomfortable it must be to have your balls sticking to the side of your leg, I start thinking about the real question.  Why would any man choose to wear boxers?   What the fuck is the point in that?  It would be like wearing a loose tank top in the middle of summer and calling it a bra.  No support, no point.  Just a piece of loose fabric between your tits and your sundress.

Wouldn’t you rather have your boys supported and carefully protected from the horror of the skin to skin sticky?

What about when you’re playing sports?  And they’re all hot and loose and swinging back and forth?  Wouldn’t it make sense to wear something a little snugger?  If anything just to prevent the sticky thing from happening.

So yeah.  This is what a typical moment inside my brain looks like.  This is how my thought process happens.

And you wonder why I drink.